


Impressions

by Animom



Series: Temenos [1]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Betrayal, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Manipulation, Mind Games, Physical Abuse, Pre-Canon, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-14 04:47:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Animom/pseuds/Animom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pegasus and Gozaburo vie for Seto's soul. Pre-canon: friendship, rivalry, and vindictiveness.</p><p>Not a "pairing fic," <i>per se</i> but has Roseshipping (Pegasus/Cyndia) and slight overtones of Toonshipping (Pegasus&Kaiba). ** (Optional prequel to <i>KP Duty</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Public Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Yu-Gi-Oh is the intellectual property of Kazuki Takahashi and Konami, and is being used in this fanfiction for fan purposes only. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this fanfiction.
> 
> A big thank-you to **Yukie,** who helped me feel so ashamed of how I'd written Pegasus in the original version of _KP Duty_ that I was spurred to write this story as an attempt to atone.

.

.

At the last possible moment, with every piece of clothing in his portmanteau strewn across the hotel's king-sized bed, Maximillion surrendered himself to the dark gray suit, white dress shirt, and muted necktie.

The outfit's funereal somberness was appropriate for mourning the sacrifice of his hair to his quest for venture capital, but then, he would do whatever needed to be done to ensure success. Grateful that his father's old college chum had arranged this audience with the fabulously wealthy industrialist Gozaburo Kaiba, he was determined to follow Mister Oshita's many admonishments – _Cut your hair short, dress conservatively, answer every question as briefly as possible, don't let on you're only eighteen unless he specifically asks your age, call them matches rather than duels, emphasize the fighting aspect, downplay magical and fantastical elements, explain that trap cards are like land mines –_ to the letter. To do otherwise, to wear or do anything that might make Mister Kaiba dismiss him as a frivolous flibbertigibbet, would be foolish.

He tightened the knot of his necktie a miniscule amount, turned this way and that to ensure that no gleam of gold escaped his eyepatch, and finally dusted the toes of his new black shoes – oxfords, dreadfully uncomfortable, he couldn't wait to toss them out – with a corner of the bedspread. Satisfied that he had done all he could for his appearance, he opened the leather portfolio to review one last time the six cards he had selected from the special set – with Japanese rather than English text – he'd custom-made for the meeting. Mister Oshita had advised him not to show any cards unless Kaiba asked to see samples, but as recommended, there were no female figures, spellcasters, magical creatures, animals, or magic cards. He sighed. Kagemusha, the two M-Warriors, Giant Soldier of Stone, Two-Pronged Attack, and Trap Hole: good cards, but aesthetically rather dull.

He remembered, just as the door was about to close, that he hadn't grabbed his room key or put on his wedding ring.

.

He had wondered in the elevator how he would find Mister Kaiba – no, he must remember to use _Kaiba-sama_ – in the hotel's expansive dining room, but he needn't have fretted. The _m_ _aitre d'hotel_ motioned discreetly as soon as he entered the restaurant, and escorted him to one of the private rooms at the back.

Kaiba Gozaburo had his head down, writing something. As Maximillion waited nervously for acknowledgment of his presence – one needed acknowledgment before introducing oneself and sitting down – he noticed that a young boy also sat at the table.

Blindfolded.

Just as he was about to demand an explanation, the boy said, "Knight to d7."

"Took you long enough," Gozaburo said coldly. "Which knight?"

"The b-file."

"Rook to d1." Gozaburo looked up. "Who are you?"

"I'm Maximillion Crawford, Kaiba-sama. Oshita Konosuke, your vice-president of business strategy, went to Harvard with my father." He discreetly wiped his palm on his jacket and started to extend his hand, then realized that Kaiba-sama was Japanese and bowed instead. Not too deeply: he had been told that too much was almost as insulting as too little.

"Knight to b6." The boy – who looked to be ten or eleven – had turned his head slightly when Maximillion spoke, but otherwise continued to sit perfectly still, his hands folded in his lap.

"Queen to c5." Gozaburo picked up his knife and fork. "We are on a tight schedule: Seto's exhibition matches begin in less than an hour. You have five minutes."

"Thank you, sir." Maximillion sat, but before he could begin the boy asked, "Isn't queen to c3 better?"

Gozaburo laughed derisively. "And expose her to the bishop on e6? Why would I do that, Seto?"

"Sorry, sir. I forgot that we're playing the same moves they did. Bishop to g4."

Curious despite his ticking clock, Maximillion asked, "Who?"

"Fischer and Byrne." Gozaburo cut into his nearly-raw steak. "So what did you want? "

Maximillion took a deep breath. "As Mister Oshita may have told you, for the past year and a quarter I have been producing and marketing a limited-edition series of cards used in a fighting game. Demand has always exceeded supply, but recently the demand has increased exponentially."

"The tipping point," Gozaburo nodded, chewing. "Oshita said as much. You're a one-man shop? What you Americans call an S-corporation?"

"Yes, Kaiba-sama. I'm looking for investors so that I can incorporate, hire staff, and hand off all operations except card design."

"Oh, now I remember." Gozaburo wiped his mouth, took a swallow of his drink. "You're an _artist_."

Maximillion bristled at the amount of disdain he heard in the older man's voice. He was struggling to formulate a reply that would preserve his dignity without antagonizing Kaiba-sama further when the boy saved him.

"Byrne's next move was Bishop to g5," he said calmly. "If he had gone to e2 instead it would have protected the King and prepared for castling, but he probably underestimated Fischer. Black's next move was to sacrifice his knight."

"You've memorized the moves," Gozaburo said, transferring his ill-humor to the boy, "but have you _understood_ them?"

"I think so, sir." The boy's hands, clenched in his lap, became white-knuckled.

"Not good enough."

Maximillion decided to return the favor. "Kaiba-sama, pretty pictures aren't why I have been – and will continue to be – successful. I _know_ my business, I _know_ my market, and they want what I'm selling."

Gozaburo chuckled. "And what is that?" There was an unpleasant glint in his eye.

"I give young men living ordinary lives a way to feel victorious and successful." Maximillion had never used that phrase before, but he was pleased with himself for thinking of it. "With a hobby like this game, once they begin collecting, they will always be hungry for more powerful cards and tactics – as will anyone they defeat. In the end, the demand will be self-perpetuating, because acquiring the biggest gun, the hardest-hitting first strike, the unassailable defense is an easier goal for the ordinary person to achieve than a mastery of strategy and tactics. For these reason, I believe that whatever I make will be snapped up by an ever-increasing player base." He knew that he had gone completely off the rails of Oshita's advice, but he was certain the gamble would pay off.

Gozaburo sat back, amused. "Well, well. It seems you can think like a man after all. Do you have samples of these cards?" He glanced at the boy. "We're done."

Maximillion handed over the portfolio. As the boy removed the blindfold, untied the knot, and then folded the strip of silk into ever-smaller thirds Maximillion asked him softly, "Where's _your_ lunch?"

Intense blue eyes – so unlike Kaiba Gozaburo's muddy hazel – flashed at him in surprise, then quickly lowered.

"Seto has a weak stomach," Gozaburo muttered as he scowled at the cards. "I prefer that he not dishonor our family by vomiting in public."

Maximillion saw the boy's neck turn red in shame, and he wished for a cartoon boxing glove to knock Gozaburo through the wall of the restaurant.

"You painted these? It seems you have talent," Gozaburo said. "As a miniaturist, at least."

"So, you'll invest in my company?" Maximillion asked, in his joy clasping his hands together in what he realized later had been a very non-masculine way.

"No," Kaiba Gozaburo said, snapping the portfolio shut, "but I will pay you seven hundred and fifty thousand yen to paint a portrait of my son. We'll be back at three this afternoon, you can start then." He tossed his napkin on his plate, dropped the portfolio on top of that, and stood. "Come, Seto. The television crew is waiting. Try not to disappoint me."

As the two wound their way through the restaurant to the door – Gozaburo in the lead with the boy creeping along behind – a stunned Maximillion snatched up his portfolio and hurried after them. He plucked at the boy's sleeve until he turned, then asked in a whisper, "If there was no chessboard on the table, why did you have to be blindfolded?"

The shy smile he got in reply was worth more than a blank check.

.

.

.

 **Author's Notes** : Thank you to **Rroselavy** for beta, and to **bluemusic** for suggesting the Fischer-Byrne Game of the Century (turns 8 – 11 are re-played).  
  
For those who have not read any of _Beholden_ , I'll explain that I've decided to use "Maximillion Jacob Crawford" as Pegasus' birth name; this way, when he adds "Pegasus" later as a middle name (making him "Maximillion Pegasus Jacob Crawford"), it accommodates both his Japanese name (Pegasus J. Crawford) and his English dub name (Maximillion Pegasus). Also, as I've done in other fics, using a slightly off-center version of a canon character's name is my way of signalling to readers that this is an AU.  
  
Konosuke Oshita is one of the Big 5. He's known as Gansley in the English dub version.  
  
Finally: I'd had a theory about Seto's physical gauntness as a teenager (and yes of course as an anime character he's stylized, but that's not the point) being the result of a psychological complex where eating had acquired negative associations as a result of stressful meals with Gozaburo, but I thought that it was sort of a far-fetched idea … until I recently began to read Graham Farmelo's The Strangest Man: The Hidden Life of Paul Dirac, Mystic of the Atom. The beginning of that biographical book has Dirac as an old man recounting how stressful dinners with his father gave him a life-long eating disorder. (If Paul answered a question wrong, his next request – no matter what it was – was denied. One can assume this included requests to be excused from the table to use the bathroom or to vomit from stress. Made me want to reach through time and hug Dirac – though he probably couldn't stand to be touched – and beat the crap out of his father.)  
  
.  
  
(06) 15 Nov 2012


	2. In the Public Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The picture he will paint is not the one the father has commissioned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yu-Gi-Oh is the intellectual property of Kazuki Takahashi and Konami, and is being used in this fanfiction for fan purposes only. No infringement or disrespect is intended by this fanfiction.

.

"Tell me about your father," he said, barely paying attention to his hands as he set aside tubes of color for the portrait, mentally filling the canvas with cobalt and ultramarine, alizarian blue, hues of naples yellow and ochre, umbers and madder brown for the hair.

"I don't really remember him," the boy said, clasping his hands, his head in profile as he looked out the window. "I think he's in my dreams sometimes, but I never see the face." He turned. "How do you want me to pose?"

"You can keep looking out the window, if you like," the artist said. "Most people find it easier to sit still if they have something to look at." The news that Gozaburo Kaiba wasn't the boy's biological father didn't necessarily explain the brute's complete lack of affection or pride toward this amazing child – he knew several families with gathered children that were fiercely loved – but it did dash his theory that the boy was a unwanted bastard foisted on an unwilling father.

Although, now that he considered it, it had been rather far-fetched to think that the cold, cruel millionaire had participated in the creation of anything as warm or intimate as a "love child."

"Should I turn my body too? And where do you want my hands? I can sit however you want me to," the boy said.

"Just do whatever is comfortable," he said, sitting down with his sketchpad. "You can keep talking if you feel like it, I'm going to do some sketches first." The commission called for the standard "my son, the future captain of industry" portrait – seated child surrounded by munitions factories and tanks and ICBMs, oh my – but that he could paint later; first, he wanted to capture whatever was behind this child's unnatural subservience. He was too young to be so lifeless.

"What should I talk about?" The lack of directions seemed to be making the boy nervous, and suddenly that became a piece of the puzzle: this was a child whose life was as good as gone, whose every waking moment was regimented, whose very breaths and thoughts were barely his own. He put aside the sketchpad and went to the canvas, using his palette knife to block in a hulking monster that filled the right half of the canvas with grays and dirty browns and loomed over a small figure in the lower left, a huddled boy whose eyes would plead heartrendingly with the viewer. Behind him, in the background upper left, an open door spilled a sickly yellow-green light that offered no escape.

"What about your mother?"

"She died when I was five, when my brother was born."

"Does he live with you?" He added a second smaller boy to the scene, peering in fearfully around the doorframe.

"In a different part of the mansion. I hardly ever see him anymore." Sadness. "He liked the orphanage better."

 _And you did too,_ he added silently. He filled the canvas quickly, powering himself with the nausea that rose up as he thought about why a rich, widowed brute would adopt two small boys. He added indigo and blue-black to the palette, picked up a small brush to work on the eyes, ready to pour into those eyes his overwhelming need to give the boy a hug, he was sure –

.

"Does it hurt?" The boy was crouching in front of him. "Should I get the doctor?"

"What?" He was kneeling on the floor, his eye-patch clutched in his left hand, his skull pounding. Next to him the dropped brush had traced an ornate calligraphy on the carpet.

He couldn't believe what he had just seen: one of the stone tablets from the crypt, the dragon one, had come to life and wrapped its vast wings around the boy like a shield.

"You grabbed your eye and fell down," the boy said. "Why don't you have a glass one? I've never seen anything gold like that."

There was curiosity in the boy's voice, and when Maximillion looked in the blue blue eyes he was happy to glimpse a spark in the ashes. "I'll tell you all about it after I finish your portrait." He stood – the boy's surprisingly strong grip helping him – and reached for the sketch pad. "But first – " he picked up a charcoal, "I want to draw something else for you."

The boy stood close, watching as the quick strokes flew over the paper – the powerful, barrel-shaped body, the sinuous neck, sweeping, the clawed wings. As the oval head emerged the boy gasped. "That's – I dream of something like that, sometimes."

Three years ago Maximillion would have dismissed the claim as a lie, just a lonely boy's way of trying to establish a connection, but three years ago Cynthia was still alive and the veil of reality was as yet untorn: he knew better now. That he and this boy had a deeper connection didn't surprise him at all. "Is the dragon you dream of silvery white like the moon?"

The boy nodded.

"I'll make a card of it for you someday, okay?" It would be simple enough to make another of the dragon cards he'd given to Arthur.

The joy that bloomed in the boy's face was enchanting.

"Until then," Maximillion opened his valise and took out the special Japanese-text sample cards he'd had made for the meeting with Gozaburo. "Take these. And don't forget to share some with your brother, okay?"

"Yes, I will!"

"And tell your _father_ ," he wasn't successful at biting back his contempt, "that you need to come back this evening to finish sitting for the portrait. I'll treat you to dinner afterward, if that's acceptable to him."

Wide-eyed, the boy nodded and tucked the cards into his shoe, then bowed deeply and said, "Thank you, Crawford-sama."

"None of that - _sama_ for me," Maximillion said. "My friends call me Max."

A small, sly smile appeared. "I will, if you call me Seto."

Maximillion laughed. "What a negotiator! You'll make a great CEO some day, Seto-kun."

When the boy had left Maximillion set the first portrait – still eyeless – aside, and then propped a blank canvas on his easel. On it he sketched a young man on a modernistic steel throne: his hands not meekly in his lap but on the throne's riveted arms, as if he was on the verge of springing up and into action. The background would be a formless swirl, free of clutter, so that nothing would detract from the painting's focal point: startling sapphire eyes, confidently challenging the viewer.

Maximillion hummed happily, imagining the brute's reaction to this portrait, and added cerulean, and warm gray, and dioxatine violet, and cinnabar green, and all the other hues of hope and sacrifice and triumph to his palette.

.

~ : : ~

.

AN: Thank you to **Rroselavy** for beta, and to **Rroselavy** and **Maria_Chan** for artist expertise.

Color reference was the chart of Sennelier Artist's Extra Fine Oil Paint on the Dick Blick website.

.

(11) 8 Aug 2013


	3. Control

.

He'd worked all night, switching between the two paintings as either fury or protectiveness had been dominant. Seto was the first living person he had painted since Cynthia died, and in the back of his mind he knew that what he was doing was far more than merely fulfilling a high-profile commission: it was testing his identity as an artist. It was all well and good to paint re-creations of fanciful creatures and spangly magical lights, but if he could no longer put his heart into a canvas, no longer move people – well, he was as good as useless. As it turned out, he still had it: both works turned out exactly as he had envisioned them, full of power and challenge and emotion.

It wasn't until dawn, when, happily exhausted, he was cleaning his brushes in the hotel's marble sink, that he realized that the spark that had ignited his creativity was his empathy for the lonely, beleaguered boy. He suddenly very much wanted to stay in touch with Seto, to befriend him if possible,and kicked himself for not getting the boy's contact information during the sitting.

Still, he wasn't one to quit at the first obstacle. Taking the formal portrait with him, he went downstairs and tried to bribe the desk clerk for information – room number, checkout date, phone number – but he got nothing for his discreetly delivered roll of marks.

So be it. He ensconced himself in one of the plush armchairs in the lobby, filling a sketchbook and a half with ideas while next to him the large canvas with the stunning portrait of the blue-eyed boy on a throne of steel collected a curious, appreciative crowd.

Maximillion was pleased that they were talking about him, about the portrait. Idly he fantasized: perhaps a photographer would be drawn to the crowd, and then wait around to snap a picture of painter and patron …

Publicity was always good.

Gozaburo and Seto entered the lobby at last, the elder Kaiba at the center of a swirl of assistants and bellhops, his son trailing five steps behind. Maximillion stood and waited for them to notice him.

The boy did first, his thin face bright for an instant with a quickly-suppressed smile. A moment later Gozaburo looked over, and after what looked like a command to the boy to stay put, Gozaburo came over.

"I finished the portrait of your son," Maximillion said in his carefully rehearsed Japanese, noting with pleasure how Gozaburo's expression of disdain melted into mild surprise.

"You work fast," Gozaburo said, returning the conversation to English as his eyes flicked over the canvas.

"He is an interesting subject."

Gozaburo looked at him sharply, then asked, "You don't expect me to carry this on the airplane, do you?"

"I'll arrange for shipping, if you give me your address," Maximillion said smoothly, wondering how closely the boy's mail was monitored.

Gozaburo, as if reading his mind, shook his head. "I'll handle that." He snapped his fingers and called to his assistants. "Hobson!"

A grotesquely humpbacked old man with round glasses hurried over. Gozaburo spoke a few words to him in Japanese, too quickly for Maximillion to understand.

The humpback bowed slightly, then reached toward the canvas. "If I may …?"

"Of course," Maximillion said, holding it out.

Hobson studied the painting with obvious appreciation. "It's an excellent likeness."

"It's passable," Gozaburo said sourly, then left them.

Maximillion watched as Hobson carried the canvas to the concierge's alcove. _Passable?_ Really, did the man have no eye for art? The portrait wasn't a masterpiece, true, but it was certainly more than _passable_. He shook his head. Philistinism aside, there was something imminently despicable and brutish about the man and the way he treated his son, something unnatural and unloving. Maximillion was now doubly determined to help the boy, but it was going to be tricky. Gozaburo was a shrewd, ruthless businessman, and Maximillion know that such people had their valuables well guarded. As the Kaiba heir, Seto probably had as little freedom as a virgin in a seraglio.

In the end, though, it was easy. The front desk called Gozaburo over and handed him some papers while Hobson was still occupied at the concierge’s alcove. Maximillion walked across the lobby until he caught Seto's eye, and then discreetly motioned to him.

A quick glance at his father, and then the boy hurried across the lobby to the pillar that Maximillion had half-hidden behind.

"I very much enjoyed meeting you," Maximillion said. Over Seto's shoulder he watched Gozaburo, who seemed to be arguing with two clerks at the front desk.

The boy's expression was guarded, and possibly a little haunted. "I was glad to meet you too, Mister Crawford." He added softly, "Thank you again for the cards. And for the other pictures you drew. Are you really going to make a dragon card someday?"

"Not just a dragon card, but a dragon card especially for _you_ ," Maximillion said with a smile. "I give you my word." He put his hand over his heart. "And a gentleman _always_ keeps his promises." He wanted so badly to free this child from Gozaburo's tyranny. "Now, since you're going to be a businessman someday, Seto, you know that businessmen always exchange cards." He slipped one of his calling cards from his pocket and held it out. "You can call me whenever you want, alright? It doesn't matter what time it is, you just call, okay? About anything."

"I'm not allowed to use the telephone," the boy said quietly. He looked down at the card, but didn't take it.

Trying not to look as outraged as he felt, Maximillion asked, "Do you have access to a a computer with e-mail?"

Before Seto could answer, Gozaburo turned, noticed them, and practically stormed across the lobby's marble floor. "You – what do you want now? I accepted your painting and paid you!" He put out an arm and shoved Seto back, as if Maximillion were a plague carrier.

"Yes, you did sir, and I thank you again. It was a pleasure to meet you." Maximillion bit back his outrage and held out his hand: it was the civil thing to do.

Gozaburo ignored the gesture. "Come, Seto. Your dallying has made us late to the airport."

"Goodbye," the boy said, and with a sudden defiance shook Maximillion's hand. "It was nice meeting you." As the two went out front to their limo, Maximillion followed, feeling a sudden impulse to say _something_ that might salvage Gozaburo's impression of him _,_ but before he could think of anything he heard someone behind him squeal, "Oh my God! It's _him_!"

Turning to see what the commotion was about, he found himself surrounded by a group of teenagers.

"Are are you really him?"

"Can we get your autograph?"

"You look just like your magazine picture!"

"Me, me! Please sign my cards!"

Gozaburo and Seto paused, watching.

Maximillion sighed. Publicity was good, yes, but not when combined with bad timing: Gozaburo was now literally _sneering_. Well, there was no remedy for it. The venture capital clearly wasn't going to be offered, his attempt to stay in contact with the boy had failed, and as there looked to be no way to remedy either of those by reversing Gozaburo's opinion of him there seemed little point in denying his alter ego.

Plus, two of his admirers were holding up the magazine article, with the two page color picture spread of him before he'd cut his hair. Reclining on a palanquin held by scantily-armored Amazons. Dressed in an ermine-trimmed scarlet brocade dressing gown. Holding a glowing crystal ball. Surrounded by cheetahs.

"I'll autograph the magazines, but not the cards," he said smoothly, his face beginning to burn under Gozaburo's continuing contempt. Really, did the man have lasers for eyes?

"Me first!" One of the girls, a blonde, crowded close: her perfume was the same as Cynthia had worn, lily of the valley and strawberry, and Maximillion took the magazine she handed him and signed it numbly.

"Your signature is so _cool_!" the girl said with a squeal, and the illusion was dispelled.

"It's just a doodle," he said, taking the next magazine. "I don't sign with my actual name."

"Humph." Gozaburo was addressing Seto. "His name isn't yet established, and yet he's concealing his identity? Only criminals and _degenerates_ act in such a way." The limousine pulled up, and as the chauffeur hurried around to open the door for Gozaburo the blonde girl showed Seto her magazine. "Scribbles and loops," Gozaburo said dismissively, after a quick glance.

"It looks like a winged horse," Seto said quietly before following his father into the limousine.

Maximillion thought _I'll never see that child again_ and felt grief surge up anew.

Under his eyepatch, the golden eye pulsed.

.

Maximillion thought about the solemn boy almost every day after that, wondered how he was doing, how he could help him, but after a few weeks he began to accept that there was nothing to be done.

And then he received a blank e-mail from "SK" with an attached file named _PierianSpring_. The mythological reference – for the ancient Greeks, the Pierian Spring was sacred to the Muses, and therefore symbolized the source of art and science – put it a cut above the usual malicious spam, and so, curious, he clicked, saved the attachment, and installed it.

A small screen appeared: a simple text entry box, two buttons labeled "Encrypt" and "Decrypt," and above them the following message:

_Mr Crawford:_

_(If you're reading this then I must have memorized your address correctly when you showed me your card.)_

_This program isn't very polished, but I wanted to get it to you as fast as I could. If you want to write to me, type in the box, click Encrypt, then send the result. Also you'll probably need to use the program to translate my replies._

_Seto_  
.

With a smile, Maximillion typed _**It seems to work well!**_ in the text area and clicked "Encrypt." A few seconds later, a line of characters appeared on his screen – the number 1, followed by several small chess icons, followed by swirling, calligraphic letters.

It took him a few moments to make sense of what he was seeing, and then he laughed at the audacity and amazing brilliance of it. Seto's little program didn't generate the usual nonsense letters and numbers that came from normal encryption, but was instead disguising the correspondence as a chess discussion in some obscure language! _Much_ less suspicious-looking than a message containing normal encrypted text would be. And the strange letters – probably a language that Gozaburo wasn't fluent in.

If it was even a real language at all.

And then the fact that the boy needed to go to such lengths to keep their correspondence secret sank in and sobered him. He thought for a minute, then added to his message _**Oh, I hope you don't mind that I've created an alias to send these messages from?**_

He set up a new account – Pierian – opened a reply to "SK" then carefully copied and pasted the characters Seto's program had created. Just before he hit _Send_ , he went back, added three words to his message, re-encrypted, and then sent the result.

The change he had made was to sign the message "Your friend, Pegasus."

.

.

_~ To be continued ~_

.

First, a thank you to those who took the time to review previous chapters: it's _very_ much appreciated.

As has been done in previous chapters (and will continue to be done) I've invented pretty freely in this pre-series backstory, but if you do see something that contradicts anime or manga canon let me know via PM.

Unbetaed and hastily proofed. Sorry for typos: I'm sure they're there, I'll fix them later.

.

(06) 9 October 2011 ~ opening re-written.


	4. Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pegasus begins to explore the power of the Eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revised and expanded version of chapter posted 18 June 2013.

.

On his twentieth birthday he takes a bouquet of white lilies to her grave. It is the sort of weather she loved—sunny and mild, with playful breezes teasing the trees—the sort of day he'd always painted her _al fresco_ , because her hair and skin would glow like an angel's in the forest's shade.

"Of course I'm here," he says as he spreads the blanket, uncorks the wine. "There's no place I'd rather be." He pays no attention to the other cemetery-goers who edge past him, whispering and staring at his eyepatch, his long hair, his picnicking on a grave.

"It's been a good year," he says as he unwraps the small tray of food. "I raised more than enough venture capital to switch from a sole proprietorship to a corporation. Can you believe it? I've hired an accountant, and a print production manager, and leased offices and bought computers and desks and coffeemakers. I feel so very _official_ now. Almost like a grownup." He takes a sip of his wine. "But don't worry! I won't become stuffy or boring or an ogre, though, and do you know why? Because I have the best anti-role model in the world." He tells her then about meeting Gozaburo Kaiba, and how he's befriended the tyrannical industrialist's adopted son. "You'd be amazed at the schemes he has to devise to keep our correspondence a secret." He sighs. "You might even think such measures are unnecessary, but I assure you, if you'd met Gozaburo you'd understand entirely. It's criminal, the way that poor child is forced to study every waking moment! He's like a galley slave! Chained to oars of …" He bites his lip, trying to finish the metaphor. "Chained to the oars of his father's ambition!" He wistfully recalls how Cynthia always laughed lovingly at what she called his "extravagant phrasings," and for a moment his memories of her are so vivid she almost shimmers into reality. "No, no I'm not exaggerating, darling," he says. "I think Seto would go mad if not for our friendship. It might be the only thing keeping him from throwing himself from the rooftop in despair. We have a genuine connection. In fact—"

He stops speaking, his thoughts tentatively approaching a will-o'-the-wisp that's been darting in and out of the periphery of his mind for the past weeks, an idea so strange and wondrous and amorphous that he's been afraid that articulate scrutiny will frighten it away.

And yet ...

He brushes a tiny leaf from the sun-warmed marble of her headstone, clasps his hands, bows his head. It is probably nothing, this idea of his, an air-castle built by grief.

And yet ...

"One afternoon a few weeks ago I was in the studio," he begins. "Doodling random shapes to empty my mind. _Tabula rasa_ to lure inspiration to alight. I must have filled six pages with useless nonsense when suddenly a scene came into my mind's eye." He pauses for a moment. "Well, I say 'came into, but really it felt like a high-pressure blast from a firehose. I was literally so startled I dropped everything and fell off my chair.

"Still, it was so vivid it set me ablaze, and so I hurried back to my desk, took a new pad and charcoal—as you can imagine, I was shaking so badly my fingers could barely hold either—and I drew. A child, riding a dragon into the night sky. Quite unlike my usual style. Very stylized, almost heraldic, with that primitive _fauve_ quality that characterizes children's drawings. And there was such a ..." He tries to remember, tries to find words. "I felt such joy and sadness and _urgency_ as I drew. I've not felt such strong emotions since," he swallows against a sudden lump in his throat, "since I used to paint you."

He sits silently for a moment before he can go on.

"And then just as suddenly it was gone. I was in a daze—for how long I do not know—until I heard my computer sound a chime. It was an electronic message from Seto. _M. drew one for me until you make the official version_.

"It took me a moment to recall that I'd promised, on the day we met, to make a card for him—the boy had a growing fascination with dragons, which wasn't unexpected. Children in oppressive households often develop a compensatory fantasy life." For a moment he thinks of his own childhood, his mother's chronically red-rimmed eyes, the association of incipient violence with the sheen of silk neckties and cologne from the weekly visits his father had with the many "uncles" and "local businessmen" that visited the mansion.

He takes a deep breath. "And now the astounding part, darling. When I clicked the message I saw that he'd included a picture of the card his brother had drawn, and in every detail it matched what I'd just drawn." He does not tell Cynthia that the sight of the dragon had instantly given him the worst headache he'd had since the agonizing weeks he'd spent in the Cairo hospital following acquisition of the golden eye, an excruciating, incapacitating pain that had barely let him get to his bedroom without passing out. He had spent the rest of that day and most of the night lying down with a cool cloth over his eyes, the slightest movement stabbing so viciously that he'd worried at first that he'd suffered an aneurysm or brain hemorrhage. But then, slowly, he had remembered: the only time in his life that he'd actually passed out had been the day he'd painted Seto's portrait. Right after he'd had a vision of a white dragon guarding the boy.

He smiles. _"_ I suppose it's not surprising, is it? If normal eyes see ordinary things, a special eye should be able to see extraordinary things _._ I've even started to hope that ... well, I must learn more, much more, my love, before I know if I can, like Orpheus, lead you out of darkness and back into the light."

He digs in his rucksack and takes out a battered journal. "So I've been reading my old entries of how it all began ... "

.

_Thursday, 28th_

_._

_Flight hideous. So-called first class was crowded, vile stuffy air. Tempted to use oxygen mask. (Commercial airline my ass!) Surly steward pretended not to understand need for blanket or pillow. Too exhausted to argue or worry about having my pockets picked while I slept. Used hat to protect face from greasy window. Dozed off just long enough to be shaken awake by v. bumpy landing._

_More chaos at airport. Guidebook and phrase book useless. French turned some heads but no response. German got only angry looks. No idea how to get to consulate. About ready to start waving American money when I heard someone English. Elderly professor of archeology, Arthur Hopkins. Here to explore ruins. Sweet old gentleman. Offered to share his driver and arrange a room for me at his hotel. (AH traveling with bodyguard straight out of Kurosawa, a coarse, stout, bearded middle-aged Japanese man. Reminds me of "uncles" we entertained back home. Violent animal hidden in a suit. He doesn't like me.)_

_AH invited me to go around with him but if it means rubbing elbows with the thug I'd rather brave the marketplace on my own._

_P.S. Bought a new hat. White, with a wide brim._

_._

_undated_

_._

_No idea what to say. Can't write for long. Sister Alice (?) says I am still weak. Won't argue. Room looks flat. How did I get here? Head is bandaged. Why?_

_._

_"Tuesday"_

_._

_No one will show me a calendar. Nurses are horrified when bandages are changed. (Can't find a mirror.) Orderlies hold my wrists. When can I leave._

_._

_Monday, 17th_

_._

_AH was who brought me here. Will spring me tomorrow._

_._

_Thursday, 20th_

_._

_It seems that A. had to go to the consulate to force my release. Father wired money for the bill. What fun that conversation that will be._

_I have a mirror. Arthur says the surgeons operated three times but were absolutely unable to remove the object. Doesn't accept my story of being attacked by thieves. Does accept the story of how the mirror broke. Left out—where I was sure to find it—a copy of the paper he's planning to send to the leading scholarly archeological journals. Hierophantic objects. Divine games. Will they take him seriously? I doubt it._

_._

"And, as I predicted," he tells her, "When he published his paper claiming that an ancient priesthood had used sacred combat to pierce the veil of reality, manipulating time and space and matter, the academic world ridiculed and rejected him, destroying his reputation and his career. Only I knew he was right, because I had seen the proof, but what good would it have done if I had come forward? If I'd revealed that my Eye had let me see you again in those precious moments after I received it, I'd have been laughed at, dismissed as a crackpot. Just as he was." He cradles his empty wineglass in his hands. "Instead, I made him an offer: I would underwrite his expeditions if he allowed me to develop a game based on his theories. He agreed, of course, and since then he has freely shared his findings and knowledge of the ancient ways with me."

He put his hand on the sun-warmed marble of her headstone. "I promise you this, my love: I _will_ master the power of the Eye, and bring you back to my side. No matter what it takes."

.

.

.

_~ To be continued ~_

.

.

.

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(03) 7 Aug 2013

 


	5. Hemlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pegasus begins to put his plan in motion, and declares open warfare upon Gozaburo.

"That's a very unusual prosthesis."

By the desultory way she'd paged through the opening sections of the RFP he tagged her as the type of executive who left the evaluation of details and fine print to underlings—underlings being the various twentysomethings at the table with clothes so expensive and new he was certain that the price tags were tucked out of sight.

"Yes," he told Executive Lady. (She'd introduced herself as Janice something, but he didn't expect to have to remember it.) "I decided that a glass eye—well, it just wasn't me. I don't like pretense," he said, holding her gaze just a beat or two longer than was necessary. "And as I had no desire to look like a pirate, I went with something custom made and stylish."

"It suits you," she said. Her voice had dropped most of its frosty professionalism, and one of the young men at the table glanced at her with a look of such angry, jealous possessiveness that there was no need to look into his mind.

 _ _Tsk tsk__ _,_ Pegasus thought. __Boning the boss?__ He put a finger across his lips to half-hide his smile.

Executive Lady saw, though. She made no attempt to hide her own, conspiratorial smile.

He was almost tempted to tell the young man that he could do better. The woman was laughable, churning with guilt over her "naughty" fabric-draped fantasies: silk blindfolds, velvet floggers, satin rope bondage. Lust and shame, so ridiculous. For an instant he considered arranging an assignation just to teach her the lesson that no woman would ever surpass his Cynthia, but ... it wasn't worth the effort.

All but one of the generic middle managers at the table had finished reading his proposal, but they were all clearly waiting for the regal older man seated directly across from Pegasus to give his opinion.

It didn't take long. "You can't be serious!" he said, scowling as he flipped past the last few pages. "This is—" He gathered himself: clearly, rudeness was not his preferred mode of communication. "Consider taking some business classes, Mister Pegasus, if you expect to succeed in business."

"Is the proposal not reasonable?" he asked mildly. "I worked very hard on it." He stopped himself from adding almost an hour. No need to go overboard, after all.

"Reasonable? It's not even in spitting distance of reasonable!" one of the generic junior executives parroted as the older man closed the folder.

"Well," Pegasus said. "I must admit gauging the travel distance of saliva was not part of my upbringing." He took one of his business cards, wrote a combination of letters and numbers on the back, then held the card out toward the older man. "Thank you for being so generous with your time."

"I didn't mean it literally," the junior executive said, apparently attempting to backpedal on his churlishness. "It's a figure of speech. I meant that your ROI projections aren't—"

Pegasus paid no attention to the yammer: he was watching the older man, who, having read what was written on the card, had gone very still.

"What is it, Jonas?" one of the other generics asked.

Jonas—quite an apt name, Pegasus thought—did remarkably well at keeping the panic from reaching his face. His thoughts, however, were a turbid cacophony. The reverberation of _How did he get my code name?_ was followed by images of degenerate activities at a very exclusive club. Beneath it all, a litany of _My life is over_ and _The gun's still in the garage_ looped endlessly.

"I pride myself," Pegasus said, "on never entering into a business deal without having done—what is the business school term? Oh yes. Due diligence. I'm sorry that I failed to accomplish that."

"Your proposal does have ... some merit," Jonas said tonelessly as he put the card deep into his jacket's inner pocket. "Perhaps we can find a way to work together."

"How wonderful to hear you say so," Pegasus said, watching as, one by one, the astonished executives followed Jonas' lead and signed the contract.

But then, they always did.

.

It was past 2 am, and he was alone in his office at the top of the newly built Industrial Illusions Tower. The only light came from the video screen. Wearily, he stabbed at the rewind button and replayed the video; once again he watched as the man paused, tilted his head as if listening, looked up at the ceiling (and if there had been something there, it was maddeningly out of frame) and then with a cry fell out of his chair ... and then static.

The body, charred and grotesquely contorted, had been found the next morning.

Pegasus sighed and rubbed his aching temples. If one included the unexpected suicides of the expedition photographer and camera man—which deaths seemed more suspicious by the day—there had been three fatalities in as many months. Despite all he'd done, it was becoming more and more difficult to find talented people willing to work for him.

His phone rang.

"I know what you are trying to do," the softly accented voice said without preamble.

"Ishizu." He should have known. He had never been able to read her at all, but oddly she seemed to be able to read _him_ , from both near and far. It was quite annoying.

"You must stop. Before another innocent dies."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I've told you," she said. "Only the chosen can wield the power of the gods."

"Well, _I'm_ chosen, aren't I?" he said. "I guess I'll have to paint them myself."

There was a long pause before she answered. "Maximillion," she said. "Must you do this?"

"Yes, I must," he said. "You and Arthur have told me that the proper way to approach sacred Items is through the rituals of the ancient game. Well, if I find— _when_ I find—the missing artifacts I have to be certain I can win them. To do that I need the strongest cards. Nothing is stronger than the three gods shown on that stone tablet." He added, "Which—need I remind you?—I donated to _your_ museum instead of an American one."

"You will not reach your journey's end by reviving the Three," Ishizu said. "Only shipwreck."

"Is that a prediction?"

"It is the truth," she said.

He slammed the telephone down. Obstacles at every turn!

He shrugged out of his jacket and took the elevator down the studio. For a moment the shadows in the cavernous room seemed ominous, looming, but then he flipped the switches of fluorescent lights. They were terrible to paint by, of course, and made a sound like the buzzing of a thousand blowflies, but he wasn't going to be deterred.

He set up three easels, then filled a tray with tubes of paint from the supply cabinets.

"If you want something done," he muttered, rolling up his sleeves before priming three fresh canvases, "do it yourself."

It was, really, the only way to accomplish his goals, especially now that he had finally pieced it all together. Maddeningly vague references had hinted that the Eye was one of a set of ancient artifacts with magical powers. According to Arthur, the other items were a scepter, scales, and an openwork disk—all supposedly lost. Pegasus, however, had seen in Arthur's mind things several facts he didn't mention: that Arthur believed Shadi's key to be part of the set; that Arthur regretted selling a large amulet many years before to finance an expedition—an amulet that might have been one of the artifacts; that a small box, given to a someone as payment or a gift, might have contained yet another; and that there was a woman, related in some way to archeology, who possessed a belt buckle with the same symbol as the Eye.

Thus he had been elated when Ishizu, a curator at the Cairo Museum, had inexplicably shown up at the digsite one day wearing a necklace that looked very much like the "belt buckle" (and seemingly made of the same odd metal as the Eye). Ishizu claimed that her necklace was simply a family heirloom: when Arthur quickly chimed in to say that he'd seen literally hundreds of objects, both ancient and modern, with the same symbol, Pegasus was certain he wasn't getting the whole story. Still, as standing near Ishizu had never given him a vision of Cynthia (the way standing next to Shadi had), in time he reluctantly accepted that her necklace, ancient artifact or not, was of no use to him.

It was after Ishizu became involved that Arthur grew increasingly uncooperative. To be sure, he kept cashing the royalty checks that were his share of the profits from the increasingly successful Duel Monsters game, but he never seemed to be available when Pegasus had a question or needed a translation or wanted to underwrite a new expedition. So be it. He had served his purpose. Pegasus now knew enough to research his own answers, hire expert translators, and lead his own expeditions. He would find the missing Items, all of them, and use the power they undoubtedly contained to draw Cynthia to him once again.

Using photographs of the tablet details as reference, he sketched outlines of the three figures— winged serpent, phoenix, demonic warrior—then brushed in the backgrounds. Red, yellow, blue. The electricity of inspiration coursed though him, and he silently bewailed that so much of his time was daily eaten up by such soul-dulling activities as meetings and presentations.

As he began to add shadows to the warrior his thoughts turned to Seto, probably because the blue he'd used for the background was the color he'd always associated with the boy. Seto was the only person he'd ever met who he could read at a distance, and this fact caused him to return again and again to wondering if the boy had an artifact—though if he did, it was surprising that he hadn't ever mentioned it. How difficult would it have been to say, "You know, I've always meant to tell you that your gold eye reminds me of ..."

There was a surge of noise from the fluorescents.

'I'm not afraid of your tricks," Pegasus said loudly. "I'm one of the chosen. Ishizu says so."

A strong wind rattled the windows.

He added shadows to the serpent and the phoenix.

Unfortunately, it had become more and more difficult to keep in touch with Seto. Once Gozaburo had caught on to the chess cipher—it had taken a year-he'd forbidden the boy to have any further contact with Pegasus, underscoring his ultimatum in the most emotionally scarring way possible. (Pegasus had disliked Gozaburo almost from the moment they met, but after enduring a week of the eleven-year old Seto's horror and shame at being forced to watch pedophile pornography while being indoctrinated with the message that "this is what men like Pegasus will do to you," Pegasus' antipathy for Gozaburo had exploded into hatred.)

As if that was not enough, as Seto began to display his true genius for electronic and technological invention the trips to international chess tournaments—which at least offered some opportunity for impromptu meetings—became less frequent. Seto became a commodity to be mined for the profit of Kaiba Corporation, and lately Pegasus only heard from him via sporadic letters or 15-second calls from untraceable public phones. He dared not call or write back.

The fluorescents flickered. Pegasus, despite his attempts at bravado, felt chill goose bumps ripple across his skin at the thought that he likely was the only person in the entire building, a structure whose twenty stories suddenly felt vast. He gathered the canvases and took them home to finish.

.

Budapest was one of his favorite cities to relax in: urbane, graceful, rich in history, with an elusive air of sensuality and intrigue. And much better weather than Venice, at least this time of year. He ate, he drank, he slept, he read, he sketched, and after a few days the horror of the god card vision began to subside. He had learned his lesson: the Three had been consigned to Ishizu's capable care. The whole matter was best forgotten.

He was awaiting dessert after finishing an exquisite paprikas when his personal cell phone rang. Unknown number. Scowling back at the disapproving waiter, he answered.

It was Seto. He spoke precisely, in a low voice. "2200. Thermal spa closest to your hotel. Say you're my swim coach. Bring a suit."

"Which spa is closest to me?" Pegasus asked.

"Use a map!" Seto hissed. The line went dead.

How very intriguing. A clandestine meeting at a spa? Swimming? Since when did Seto swim? Come to think of it, how did Seto know he was in Budapest?

Chuckling—he supposed all questions would be answered—Pegasus clapped happily as the waiter returned with his Dobos torte.

.

Seto's orders being somewhat vague—did "suit" mean business or swimming attire? and if the latter, was it for Seto or himself?—Pegasus decided to cover all bases. He put his own swim briefs in a waterproof bag, then, remembering that even _he_ had been body-conscious at Seto's age, purchased a pair of the longest, baggiest, most adjustable navy blue board shorts he could find.

He arrived at what he hoped was the correct place a quarter of an hour early—fortunate, as turned out, since they it appeared they were getting ready to close the spa's indoor pools. A hairy, frighteningly mustachioed man who met him at the door asked, "Private swim coach?" in heavily accented English.

Pegasus nodded.

The man pointed down a hallway. "Use capes," he said; then repeated carefully, "Cap."

Pegasus, who had heard that certain of the city's bathhouses had a predominantly gay clientele, was getting ready to protest when the man laughed and held up his hands. "No no! Head hair!" He opened a cabinet and handed Pegasus a sealed package containing a hideous rubber swim cap.

Pegasus laughed and went down the hall, suddenly ... well, he wouldn't say he was apprehensive, or nervous, but he was well aware of the overall _outré_ of the situation. Still ... he didn't really care what the outside world thought of the situation. He hadn't seen Seto in person for  more than two years, and furtive phone calls just weren't enough to assuage his fears about what being raised under Gozaburo's iron thumb was doing to the boy.

The pool was small, about the size of four large Jacuzzis. A bit small for doing laps, but certainly large enough to teach Seto how to float. The humid air was warm, with just the slightest aroma of mineral salts and disinfectant. The dim recessed lights made the high-ceilinged, tiled room seem like a magical undersea grotto.

Pegasus set down the bag with the two swimsuits on a plastic lounge chair, and was removing his suit jacket when someone said, ""Your hair is long again." Pegasus turned.

Seto was much taller since Pegasus had last seen him, and his face and frame had lost their childish roundness. He certainly looked and sounded older than fourteen.

"And you've grown up," Pegasus replied.

"Hn." Seto picked up the bag, looked inside.

"I didn't know if you had trunks, so I bought you a pair," Pegasus said.

Seto laughed: there was more than a little derisive disbelief in it. "You actually came here planning to teach me how to swim?"

"Of course. I took you seriously," Pegasus said. "But if you already know how, I'm happy to just sit and talk."

"No," Seto said. "I don't know how to swim. My _father_ ," he said, enunciating the word with absolute contempt, "has pronounced it a waste of time and forbidden me to learn." Seto took out the blue trunks. "Mine?"

Pegasus nodded, trying not to show how much this small victory over Gozaburo delighted him. "Yes, yours." He held out his hand. "The other pair are mine."

Seto tossed him the bag, then stood, suddenly hesitant.

Pegasus, keeping his expression carefully neutral, turned his back. Spa etiquette required that they shower before using the pools, but neither of them were urchins: he didn't think one dip would cause a plague. "So what's been going on?" he asked as he undressed, leaving his shirt on until after he'd pulled on his trunks: no reason to moon the boy, after all. "What have you been working on?"

"I designed a holographic projector," Seto said.

"And?" Pegasus asked. He couldn't tell if Seto was done changing, so he waited. "Are you having problems with it?"

"No. It works perfectly," There was a splash: good, Seto was in the water. "So perfectly he _took_ it. And is using it to kill people."

"What?" Pegasus turned around. Seto sat on the middle step of the pool, wearing the blue trunks and a white undershirt. " _Kill_ people?"

"Military simulations," Seto said, so bitterly that Pegasus winced.

"But ... aren't weapons what Kaiba Corporation does?" He knew as soon as he said this that it was a mistake. Pointing out facts wasn't what was called for: he needed to use this opportunity to score points on Gozaburo.

"When I run the company," Seto said fervently, "I'll use technology to help people."

"Very admirable." Pegasus went to the chair, sighed, unwrapped the swim cap, put it onto his head, and began trying to stuff his hair up under it.

Seto scoffed. "You look _ridiculous_!"

"I suppose I do," Pegasus said, pulling the cap off with a grimace and tossing it on the chair. "So, to hell with the rules!" He sat on the edge of the pool and eased in; the water was chest high. "Alright, let's get started. Do you know how to float?"

Seto shrugged.

"Are you afraid?"

"No." He folded his arms as if bored.

"Good. Dead-man's float isn't much good for talking." Pegasus moved to the side of the pool. "On your back is easy as long as you trust the water. Just lean back," he demonstrated. "Chin and chest up, head back, arms out to the side or above your head. If your feet sink kick your legs a little." He stood up, thinking that he couldn't in a thousand years imagine Gozaburo expending effort like this. "Your turn."

Seto clearly didn't like having his ears under water, but he floated just as he had been shown, his eyes closed, his lips pressed in a thin grim line. He was breathing shallowly and a little too fast, which Pegasus recognized as an indicator of mild panic. "Relax," Pegasus said. "Tell me more about the holo-projector design that your father appropriated."

"Nothing to tell," Seto said.

Pegasus pressed his finger to Seto's forehead. "Tilt your head back a little more, that's it." Once Seto had stabilized he asked, "You said you'd use it to help people? Give me an example. How would you use it to help me?"

Seto gave a forceful exhale, then said, "Projected images would make your game more exciting. Cards are boring."

Pegasus smiled at the inadvertent insult. "And how much equipment would a projector like that take?"

"Not much. A two and a half meter cube has room for a projector, a table, and two chairs."

"So the projections aren't that big?"

"Ten centimeters or less."

"I'm not metric." Pegasus said.

"A third of the distance from your elbow to your wrist."

Pegasus held up his arm. "That small?" He was disappointed.

Seto shrugged. "It scales. For larger monsters, define a larger dueling area. If you want giants make a stadium."

Pegasus pondered this: what a publicity stunt that would be! it would elevate dueling into a spectator sport, make it interesting for broadcast. _That_ was where the money was. "So you think my cards are boring?" he asked. "Does that mean you've played?"

"Yes."

"How did you get Gozaburo's permission?" Pegasus asked, "or did you duel on the sly? And who did you duel? Mokuba?"

"I don't need Gozaburo's permission," Seto said. "I duel the computer."

Pegasus considered the use of present tense another victory. "So you wrote a dueling program, and you built a machine that brings the monsters to life? That must be a sight! Do they interact?"

"No," Seto said. He sank a little, but arched his back again the instant he bumped Pegasus's hand. "I didn't bother to build a prototype. Moving images are almost as boring as cards. I want renditions that make noise, that have mass, that affect the environment. True 3-D gameplay."

"Is that even theoretically possible?"

"Of course. The next iteration of my holo-projector will have it. SolidVision."

"Really? So if a Duel Monster stomped and breathed fire at you, you'd actually feel vibrations and heat?" Pegasus's mind was awhirl with the gaming possibilities ... but behind those thoughts, another had stirred and risen into consciousness: If he painted a card of Cynthia, SolidVision would make her corporeal.

"Mmm-hm." Seto stood up with a splash, managing to avoid contact. "Is my white dragon card done?"

"I ..." Pegasus thought fast. This issue had come up regularly for years. Previously he'd procrastinated because he didn't see a safe way to get the card delivered and didn't want Seto to be disappointed, but now ... well, he had to have access to SolidVision, which meant cementing Seto's absolute loyalty. "I wanted to give it to you as a birthday present."

Seto frowned. "Why not now? There's no reason to wait."

"I'm using a special process," Pegasus said smoothly, "To make sure that the card I craft for you is absolutely unique."

"So it's not done?"

"Well, no." That, at least, was the truth.

"And I'll have the only one?"

Now was probably not the time to let Seto know that Arthur Hopkins had been given a white dragon card years before. "Well, it's a very powerful card. The most powerful I've ever made."

"Everyone will want one," Seto said with unabashed greed. "You want to sell thousands at a very high price."

"Yes, but yours will be the first," Pegasus assured him. "And it'll be one of a kind. A _very_ limited edition."

"I want _three_ White Dragon cards," Seto said.

"Three?"

"That's the maximum I can have in my deck—unless you're planning to change the rules?"

"No, three is the maximum. Any other demands?" Pegasus asked, amused.

"You have to promise not to make any more for ten years," Seto said. "After that you can do whatever you want."

Pegasus laughed. Seto was dictating to him, Maximillion Pegasus, what he could and could not do with his own intellectual property? Such childlike arrogance was undoubtedly the result of five years of Gozaburo's merciless tutelage. "I'll consider it," he said.

"Fair enough." Seto stirred the water with his hands, "Okay, so that was floating. What's next?"

The sound of a commotion came through the tiny windows: screeching car tires, shouting. Jaywalkers, probably.

"Could we talk a bit more about your current projector?" Pegasus asked, "Because I think that it's viable as a dueling enhancement, even without SolidVision. KaibaCorp holds the patent?"

"Yes."

"That's unfortunate. He'll never lease it to me, not in a million years," Pegasus said, ducking down in the water to get warm. "I wonder if a dummy corporation ..."

There were voices in the hallway.

"Don't bother," Seto said, smoothing his wet hair back from his forehead. "SolidVision will be superior. And I intend to keep it secret until I can patent it under my own name."

"What about ... filing the patent with me as co-inventor?" Pegasus suggested, carefully casual. "Not only would that cover the two biggest markets, but I'm sure my lawyers can find a way to make it look like it's mine until you're old enough to claim it as yours."

Seto looked skeptical.

"And," Pegasus added, dangling the final bait, "I'll funnel your share of the profits into a trust in your name. Gozaburo won't be able to touch a penny. He'll soil himself in frustration."

"You'd do that for me?" Seto asked, astonished.

At that instant the voices in the hall—which had increased to shouting—changed to the clatter of bootheels.

An instant later, Gozaburo raced into the room. "Get away from him," he roared, yanking Seto out of the pool so ferociously that his t-shirt tore, then striking him across the front of his trunks with his walking stick. Seto collapsed, curled in agony, but this was not enough for Gozaburo, who, snarling and cursing, hit Seto again and again and again.

"Stop it!" Pegasus shouted, clambering out of the pool to add his efforts to those of the pool attendants who were trying to pull the enraged industrialist off the motionless boy. Gozaburo shook them off, pulling on the head of his walking stick to reveal a rapier. Pegasus backpedaled, then dodged to the side as Gozaburo slashed at him, but the tiles around the pool were wet and he couldn't get away fast enough. Something slammed into his shoulder and down his arm, and then there was pain, astounding pain, and then the enchanted grotto churned with red stars and roses, and then there was nothing.

.

.

_~ To be continued ~_

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Note: This story expands on the story of the creation of god cards as shown in episode 85 of the original anime.

Additional author's notes will be posted upon completion of the story.

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(06) 21 August 2013 ~ tiny tweaks to end


	6. Viewpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pegasus recovers from the attack, paints white dragons, and stumbles across unexpected secrets.

.

.

To begin with, the medication made light and sound unbearable. (Especially light: drawing the drapes in his father's guest house wasn't sufficient, as errant slivers of blaze always made their way inside, blinding him.) He fell into the pattern of napping for most of the day in a windowless room, but that meant the night hours were spent either lying in bed or sitting by the window watching the moon. He couldn't read or draw, as any light bright enough to work or read by hurt his eyes. The medical team—hired by his father, of course, as if his own people had no idea where to find adequate caregivers—sat at his bedside around the clock as if he were a prisoner who needed to be guarded instead of a man who'd nearly had his arm cut off. One by one he sent them all away—except for the one who, when Maximillion had asked him how it was that he was able to carry out his caregiving in near-darkness, had replied, "Night vision goggles, sir." It was the first time he'd smiled since the accident.

The second problem with the medication was that it left him "empty-headed," something he'd often been accused of but which had never before been true: in fact, in the past he often had so much on his mental worktable that he'd felt as if he would burst from the excess energy. Now, however, though his forced convalescence should have been a time to think and plan and imagine new works, his brain was dark. He couldn't even pull up happy memories to replay: yes, he'd manage to visualize a frame or two, but then it would fade. All in all, he felt as if he were having a dream about having been buried alive ... and he didn't care.

And then, fortunately, this phase passed. As the lights—literal and figurative—began to come back on Maximillion broke out of his lethargy, hungry for information and action. The incident in Budapest seemed to have been handled primarily by the consulates, through a combination of finesse and discreet sums of cash. No charges had been filed against Gozaburo, but he—or rather his legal department—had paid for Maximillion's medical bills as well as his transportation back to the Crawford family's Las Vegas estate. Maximillion couldn't make contact with Seto, but that wasn't surprising: even before the accident the boy had been thinking of him less and less. He combed news sources, then reluctantly turned to his father's "information network," who were able to verify that Seto had had been seen arriving at Kaiba Corporation's headquarters and appeared to be uninjured. The informants also mentioned an interesting fact: whereas previously Gozaburo and his son frequently traveled to work together, since their return to Japan they always took separate cars. Pegasus wasn't sure what to make of this. Was Gozaburo shunning Seto, or the other way around? The uncertainty gnawed at him for several days, and he composed one e-mail after another in his head. Each started out calm and to the point, but inevitably became long and rambling and angry.

And that too was not surprising, since as he recovered he had felt more and more anger welling up. It was like an oil well: first a trickle of irritation, then a small bubbling pool of resentment, and finally an unfettered geyser of darkest rage. He was angry at Gozaburo for misinterpreting his friendship with Seto; angry at Seto for putting him in a dangerous situation; angry at his company for continuing to function in his absence; angry at his father for treating him as an embarrassment that needed to he hidden away; and angry even at Cynthia, for dying and leaving him alone. The anger finally built to such an overwhelming intensity that he wanted to destroy every object and kill every living being within reach, but this too passed, the roar of hatred dying down to a murmur in the background of his thoughts.

When he finally did sit down to write to Gozaburo, he used, not computer, but fountain pen on hand-engraved ecru paper. _Kaiba-sama_ he wrote (he had considered using _-san_ , but decided that respectful address would make his message more effective) _I am not, never have been, and never will be your son's lover._

Writing it out, acknowledging that this was the "crime" Gozaburo's insinuations had accused him of since the day they met, felt oddly transgressive.

 _But I am Seto's friend,_ _he wrote, underlining the word_ _am_ _,_ _and intend to continue being his friend._

He stopped. There was one last thing he very much wanted to say, something distilled from years of antagonism, something that he knew would inflame instead of placate, but ... "The hell with it," he muttered. _My only regret has always been that I cannot fulfill Seto's unexpressed wish, and be his father instead of you._

He signed the letter _Maximillion J. Crawford_ , folded it in half, slid it into the tissue-lined envelope, and sealed it with wax. He considered the unlit fireplace for a few moments, then put the envelope in a drawer of the desk.

.

"The smallest things sometimes have the largest impact," he enjoyed telling visitors. "If I had zigged to the left instead of zagging to the right, my career would be over. Thank God painting can be done one-handed."

And paint he did, his inspiration fueled by the promise of SolidVision. He painted Cynthia first, and then, because it seemed possible that the mysterious Egyptian would be needed for Cynthia's resurrection, he painted Shadi. (He hoped an ersatz SolidVision Shadi would suffice when the time came.) He painted monsters from visions of stone tablets he knew he'd never seen in person, and of course he painted the White Dragon, several variations of it, including a recreation of the version he'd used years before to make Arthur's card. He intended to show them all to Seto, and let him pick which one he liked best. (Of course, it was just good business not to waste good artwork, and so if Industrial Illusions were at some point to make and sell cards of the rejected designs, Seto could hardly object, as they wouldn't be "his version" of the White Dragon.)

Pegasus decided that it was best to give Seto the cards while the memory of Gozaburo's attack was still fresh, as combining guilt (the stitches were horrifying, a twisted black nightmare train track running across his shoulder and down his arm) with the promise of disposable income would likely provide enough leverage to convince Seto to allow Pegasus to file a joint patent application for SolidVision. Of course the timing would be tricky: offer the cards too early, or ask about SolidVision too often, and the boy might shut him out.

As it turned out, the timing took care of itself.

Pegasus was sketching out designs for a new series of monsters (the Time Bombs were turning out especially well) when the phone rang.

"Meet me in two hours," Seto said.

"Where?" Pegasus asked.

"The airport near you." He hung up.

It was so typical, Pegasus thought as he took a pain pill. As usual, Seto was making demands without giving any details, as if he was the only person traveling that day. He considered not going—it would teach the brat a lesson if he had to take a taxi—but in the end he sighed, arranged the White Dragon paintings in a row, then put on his sunglasses and called for his father's driver.

"Which airline, sir?"

"I have no idea," Pegasus said. "We'll figure it out when we get there."

They were approaching the expressway's airport exit when he got a call from the airport's exclusive Executive VIP lounge. "Mr Crawford? A Mr Kaiba is awaiting you."

Of course.

Seto, dressed in a high-collared white suit that managed to seem both exotic and military, stood as Pegasus approached. "It took you long enough," he said. "Let's go."

Pegasus followed, amused. "So, this is unexpected," he said as they settled into the limo. "You coming all this way just to visit me."

"I'm here for may cards," Seto said. "I'm almost fifteen."

Ah. "As a matter of fact," Pegasus said, "I suspected as much. I've got several renditions ready for you to look at: all you need do is choose your favorite."

Seto gave him a cool, sideways look. "One design would have been sufficient: it's the stats that are important. How long to make cards from a painting?"

"Half an hour at most. I have a special photography rig—"

"I don't need details," Seto said. "As long as I have them before my tournament starts."

"Tournament?" Pegasus was puzzled: had Seto resumed competitive chess?

Seto laughed. "Tomorrow? Duel Monsters Regional Finals? Sponsored by Industrial Illusions?" He made a derisive sound. "It's your company, how can you be the CEO and not know about it?"

Pegasus shrugged, mildly annoyed at the criticism. "The marketing people set those things up. I used to go to them to make product announcements and judge cosplay and award prizes, but ever since the attack ..." He gestured at his arm. "Now it's difficult."

Seto looked briefly uncomfortable, which was gratifying, but then spoiled Pegasus's enjoyment by saying, "Why? It's just talking. You don't need two hands for that."

Pegasus, realizing that guilt might not be as effective in manipulating Seto as he'd hoped, shifted the conversation. "I had no idea you'd become involved in organized dueling. I imagine it's been quite a change from playing against your computer?"

"Not really," Seto said. "It's hardly a challenge. Ridiculous that I have to waste time defeating them all before I can advance."

"I guess I should enforce higher standards," Pegasus said dryly.

" _You_ should duel," Seto said decisively. "All the top competitors are eager to take you on."

"Are you in that category?"

"I will be, once I defeat the current American champion," Seto said. "I'll go to the nationals once I finish here."

"Does—does Gozaburo know what you're doing?" Pegasus asked.

"Of course."

"But didn't he forbid you to have cards?" Pegasus was intrigued by this change of heart: what was the old man up to?

"That was when I was a kid," Seto said, apparently completely unaware of how comical it was for a fourteen year-old to be making such a statement. "Now he doesn't care what I do, as long as I keep my grades up—which is stupidly easy, Mokuba could do the assignments I'm given—and develop new products for Kaiba Corporation."

"Oh?" Pegasus's heart literally skipped a beat. "Does he know about SolidVision?"

"Not exactly," Seto said, and with those two words Pegasus's world crashed down.

And then Seto folded his arms and said, "I've designed a few dummy projects. Every few weeks I send the worker bees down all the wrong tunnels."

"That must be a lot of work," Pegasus said. This boy ... was just one astonishment after another.

"Not really," Seto said matter-of-factually. "If you don't understand what a schematic's supposed to do, you won't be able to figure out why the prototype you build from it isn't working." He opened the limo's minibar.

Pegasus restrained himself: a blunder now would cost him everything. "How are you hiding it from him?"

"He's not a mind reader," Seto smirked, twisting the cap on a bottled water.

For the second time that hour Pegasus felt as if he had been dropped from a hundred story building—had Seto deduced the power of the Eye?—but then Seto added, "He doesn't know what I know, what I'm thinking." He tilted his head back and drank.

Pegasus watched the boy's Adam's apple, and noted with detached fondness that he really was growing up fast: soon he'd be dating, wedding, running Gozaburo's company. "How do you know it will work?"

"I designed it," Seto said, as if this fact answered all questions. He screwed the cap back on the empty bottle, then rolled it between his hands, making a crackling noise; when he noted Pegasus' expression of bemused skepticism, he added, bristling just a little, "I've also run a few computer simulations. Even if Gozaburo's spies find them they won't be able to decrypt them."

"He keeps that close a watch on your activities?" Pegasus asked, although it wasn't surprising: the boy was a valuable commodity. What he did wonder, what he'd always wondered, was if there was anything behind Gozaburo's ferocity. Had Budapest simply been rage at Seto's defiance and a misguided attempt to prevent scandal from soiling the Kaiba name, or had there actually been a spark of paternal feeling buried somewhere beneath it all? And now—had Gozaburo loosened Seto's leash because he expected Seto to hang himself, or was he actually trying to give his adopted son more freedom?

"Of course Gozaburo spies on me," Seto said, using the same tone he would have for saying _Of course he wears shoes_. "I knew he was eavesdropping on my call to you in Budapest, which is why I was vague about where we should meet." He squeezed the bottle harder, until it started to crumple, and looked out the window. "I'll bet he went to Király first, expecting to find us in the sauna with my face in your crotch."

Pegasus was so shocked at this image he was speechless.

"So your injury wasn't as bad as it looked," Seto said after a moment, thankfully still staring out the window. "I thought they'd have to amputate your arm."

"Not quite," Pegasus said, "though I'm told I passed out from blood loss before the emergency services arrived." He looked down at his fingers, flexed and wiggled them. "I still have months of physical therapy before I'll know if my hand will ever be back to normal. Apparently muscle damage is much easier to repair than nerve damage." A quick peek at the boy's thoughts showed that he was repressing the memory of what Gozaburo had said and done to him once they had returned to their hotel. Pegasus would have liked to dig for details, but they were pulling into the driveway.

Seto threw open his door while the limousine was still moving. "Which way to my dragons?"

.

If Pegasus had been asked to choose one word to describe Seto's reaction to the dragon paintings, it would have been "beatific," with "enraptured" a close second. "Take your time," he said, easing himself into a battered armchair in a corner of the studio.

"I said I'll take this one," Seto said after a less than a minute.

Oddly enough, he had chosen the twin of the painting that had been used for the very first White Dragon card. Pegasus said nothing, of course: Seto and Arthur were unlikely to ever meet, and so while Seto leaned against the wall, radiating impatience, Pegasus took a photograph of the painting, printed three copies, then carefully trimmed each image to size and glued them to the backings he'd prepared. As a final step he sprayed each card with laminate, then placed all three into the UV oven to cure.

"Fifteen minutes," he told Seto. "There's no reason to stand—take a seat." He patted the settee next to his chair.

Shaking his head, Seto folded his arms and stared at the floor.

Pegasus had become more and more adept at using the Eye in the five years since he'd received it. Where at first each mind scan lasted only a few seconds, whisking him through the very topmost layer of a mind and giving him only glimpses of random perceptions—very much like television channels flying by under the thumb of a manic clicker—now he was able to navigate where he willed, as long as he liked: through the warm, sunny layer of current thoughts; down into deep-hued, neatly ordered tiers of stored memories; or deeper still, into the dim strata of fantasy that swirled and diffused into the subconscious like drops of milk in a tank of dark water. Of course, he didn't always find what he was after in a mind, and didn't always understand what he _did_ find, but forays usually yielded something useful.

So while he knew there would be no neatly-packaged formula about SolidVision floating near the surface that he could memorize and then give to someone to expand into something useful, he felt sure he could at least be able to pick up the contrails leading to Seto's memories of the Budapest incident—which in turn might lead to something that would satisfy his curiosity about Gozaburo's sudden about-face regarding dueling. If Pegasus was lucky, it might even give him something to use against Gozaburo.

He followed the faint currents down into the level of memory.

Most people's memories were like those optical illusions where lattices of light march off to infinity, but surprisingly Seto's were the opposite, a thick, tangled hedge maze that made the faint glow of recent thoughts difficult to follow. Pegasus was about ready to withdraw when he saw the last wisp of the trail disappear into a hole. The hole sloped downward to a door, a door made of shadows that shimmered and rippled in the gloom just below the border of consciousness.

So ... something Seto had thought recently had triggered something in his subconscious? How very interesting.

Pegasus swam though the door and found himself in a stone corridor. A sound thrummed through the air, a deep, rhythmic pulse, subliminally erotic. Following it led to a round chamber, in the center of which was a raised stone platform, an altar. On the altar a nude figure—male, female, possibly bound, it was impossible to tell—lay on its side, sleeping. As Pegasus watched a second, larger figure, form and features blurred but still recognizably a humanoid male, emerged from an alcove. climbed onto the altar behind the sleeping captive, and then began to—

"You don't belong here!" someone said, and shoved him. Pegasus grabbed at them as he fell, registering a flash of silver hair—

The world snapped. He was in the studio.

Seto was still leaning against the wall, arms folded.

"Sorry," Pegasus said, his heart pounding. "I—I, it's the medication," he said, because he certainly _did_ feel dizzy, with a sort of ticklish queasiness all down his throat as if someone had just pulled out a feeding tube. "What was I doing? Oh, of course, your cards." He looked at his watch. "Yes, it's been fifteen minutes, I'm sure they're done." He blinked as he walked to the UV machine: his vision was distorted, giving everything a soft-edged, misty corona that dopplered from white to green to blue as he moved. He took the white dragon cards from the cooker—they too seemed to be smoking, as if each contained a sliver of dry ice—and held them out to Seto.

He didn't move.

"What's the matter?" Pegasus still felt queasy, but under it was a sort of triumphant _exhilaration,_ as if he'd just done something astounding, which didn't make any sense. "Seto?"

The boy's unblinking eyes were glazed, unseeing.

"Fine. Be that way," Pegasus said angrily. "Don't take them. Stand there like a mindless, soulless statue all day. See if I care." He tore the cards in half, and as he did so three tiny blue sparks flew from the cards into Seto's eyes.

Seto gasped and lifted his head. "What's taking so long?" he asked. "See if you care about what?"

What the hell was going on? "There's something wrong with the machine," Pegasus said, quickly folding the torn cards out of sight. "I'll bring the cards to you as soon as it's fixed." His vision had returned to normal, just as inexplicably as it had blurred.

"Then take me back to the airport," Seto said angrily. "I have a flight to catch."

"Of course, Your Highness. After all, you have weaklings to crush." He called up to the main house for the driver, then said, "I'm afraid I'm having a bad reaction to my pain medication, and don't feel up to riding to the airport and back." That certainly was no lie: he felt drained, although the curious sense of elation, of accomplishment, of _power_ , was still there.

Seto turned toward the door.

"I do plan to come up and watch your duels tomorrow, however," Pegasus offered. "If you don't mind, that is?"

"There won't be much to see," Seto said, but he sounded pleased nevertheless.

Pegasus walked him to the car, and waved until the car was out of sight. "Not much to see?" he whispered. "Oh, I beg to differ, dear boy."

.

He could never quite say precisely how he came to understand it all: his comprehension had been like a beach washed by waves, each successive swell uncovering more and more until at last the whole was revealed. Had some angelic influence, perhaps even Cynthia herself, guided his insights? Had his subconscious gradually pieced together the truth from fragments of the ancient teachings he'd read? Or was it simply that the ancient powers of the Eye had been hidden from him until he'd become a skilled enough adept to handle them?

He'd gone back to the studio after Seto left, stretching out on the settee with a glass of wine to calm himself and to think.

S _omething_ had happened to Seto just now. Pegasus had a vague notion that losing consciousness without actually fainting happened in persons with epilepsy, but if that were the cause it seemed too coincidental that it had occurred just at the instant he'd handed Seto the cards, and ended just at the instant he'd torn them up. No, it was more likely that Seto's seizure was connected to having his mind read. Had the repeated mind-readings somehow damaged Seto's brain? No, that couldn't be it: after all, if a book wasn't damaged by reading, how could a mind be? "If he wasn't so stubborn," Pegasus had muttered, "I wouldn't have to dig so deep." He had felt an unpleasant combination of guilt and anger, drank off the rest of the wine in his glass, and then fallen into a drowsy, uneasy state of reverie.

 _In an ancient temple, a terrible, god-like voice battered against his chest, compelling him to—to take something, to_ _harness the vast powers of greed and rapine and hatred and to use them to snare the powers of light, to capture all that was innocent and gleaming and pure and imprison it in a stone._

He had come back to himself with a shudder, his mind swirling with lewd images and sounds, disembodied mouths and eyes, quivering flesh, gigantic demons with glowing eyes and monstrous phalli ... Slightly appalled, he had thought he'd try to capture the unusual energy of this odd dark vision and had prepared a fresh canvas, but the glistening coat of primer had somehow seemed so obscene that it had eradicated his desire to paint.

And there had been a clammy, clinging sense of foreboding. He had put three fresh White Dragon cards into the processor, thinking how very mysterious his psyche was—well, and not just his, of course. Even Seto, who wasn't much more than a child, had unexpectedly strange tableau hidden inside him.

Had Cynthia been that complex? He realized with dismay that he could not say. Yes, he had loved her, did love her still, but although he vividly recalled small details—the exact blue of her eyes, the timbre of her sweet sweet voice, the shades of gold and light brown that mingled in her hair, the perfume she wore—his memory could not reproduce the nuances of her spirit. He went to the desk and took out the velvet box in which he kept her card and the precious mementos that were all he had left of her physical presence: the hair ribbon she'd worn the day they met; faded pressed flowers from the bouquet she'd gathered the day he had proposed; her unworn wedding ring; a locket she had given him. As he caressed the card he had painted of her he realized that, though Seto's SolidVision would have the power to give Cynthia form, without her soul, the spark that made her truly human, she would be little better than a mannequin. She would _look_ like his lost love, embrace him like his lost love, but she would not _be_ his lost love.

"If only," he had said, closing his eyes against the tears of frustration and defeat that burned his face, "If only I could combine your spirit with your body."

 _Golden eye, golden hair_  
Pull your love forth from the air  
Piece of her body, net for the soul  
Seal them together to make her whole.

What an odd little rhyme! He had shaken his head, half-laughing. "Funny Rabbit must have slipped Poco-Loco Joose in my wineglass!"

The timer had signaled that Seto's cards were complete. He'd set the velvet box on the desk and gone to take the White Dragons from the processor, thinking how much easier it was to make cards now than when he had started. Back then he'd actually painted each card individually.

_"Beautiful, just beautiful!" Arthur had said, studying the card with his rheumy eyes. "Your brushwork is astounding! This tiny highlight in the dragon's eye! and this thin silver line along the spine—perfection! Such talent and skill!"_

_"You're too kind! But all I did was dip a needle into the paint to make the eye, and for the spine—"_

_"No, no, don't tell me! Some things should remain a mystery, lest we drain them of their charm. I'll cherish this card, Maximillion, because you put something of yourself into it."_

__He hadn't told the old man how true that was. The "perfect" line of silver had come about because, as none of his silver paints would flow properly, he had taken three strands of his hair, twisted them together, dipped them into a clear resin, and then laid them into place along the dragon's spine._ _

"Something of yourself," he had said. There had been a roaring in his head as he'd gone back to the desk and opened the locket.

_A piece of her body, a net for the soul._

The locket that held a golden curl of Cynthia's hair.

"Oh my God."

He had been beyond elated. If he was right, incorporating a few strands of Cynthia's hair into her card should allow him—once the Millennium Items had called her forth—to bind her soul to her card ... ensuring that, every time SolidVision brought her to life, she would be his again, body and soul, for all time.

.

They wanted him to present the trophies instead of the Industrial Illusions spokesperson that had been filling in for him, but he waved the request off with a smile. "No no, I couldn't possibly!" He did, however sit on stage, clapping enthusiastically when Seto was given the champion's prize.

"My apologies," he told Seto afterward, "but I have an idea on how to make your White Dragon cards even more unique. Do you have a moment? If you come to my suite I'll show you." He'd added once they were in the elevator, "I'll just need a sample of your hair."

.

He'd assumed that the silver-haired figure represented him, in his role as Seto's protector, but this time—carefully staying far enough from the doorway so that it wouldn't attack—he saw that it was a ragged urchin girl. She crouched at the base of the altar, seemly oblivious to the entwined figures fornicating behind her.

 _Now,_ the voice commanded him. _Put her into the stone_ _ _!__

A slab shimmered into view at the edge of his vision as he stepped into the room. When the girl flew at him, teeth bared, hands curled like talons, he grabbed her by the throat and threw her against it—

—and he was out.

"Seto?"

The boy sat on the edge of the bed, staring. Next to him were the three White Dragon cards; one now glowing with an intense blue light.

"Oh my god," Pegasus whispered. "Did I really do it? Is that truly your soul?" He took a deep breath. "Stand up," he commanded.

Seto stood.

"Pat the top of your head."

Seto obeyed.

Pegasus' eyes narrowed. "Worship me," he said.

Seto knelt.

.

In the end, he only dared practice the technique twice more, for each time he released Seto's soul a faint blue sheen—almost imperceptible, it was true, but still present—remained behind on the brown strands he'd sealed along the spine of each White Dragon.

_._

_._

_~ to be continued ~_

_._

_._

**Author's note:** the idea that Pegasus learned how to do Mind Card (i.e., the soul transfer) by practicing on Seto, and in the process left bits of Seto's soul behind in each of the three Blue Eyes White Dragon cards, has been a core element of this story ever since it was conceived in 2004.

_._

(02) 19 March 2014 ~ Yet another small tweak.


	7. A Most Startling Shade of Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CONCLUSION: Seto was no longer the timid, fearful child he had been when they'd first met, but he was turning into someone Pegasus didn't care for at all.

.

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He was well on his way to being falling down drunk, he knew it, and he didn't care. He had a perfect right to be as drunk as he wanted! "It's my party, an' I'll drink if I want to!" he told Night Goggles. He did know that this wasn't the man's name, but at the moment he hated real names. Real names were no fun. Real names were, in fact, what people used to tell you how disappointed they were that the _very_ successful business that you'd founded and been running all on your own since you were seventeen—a business that even had its own _skyscraper—_ hadn't done even better.

"Of course, sir." Night Goggles, who wasn't actually wearing goggles at the moment—although it wasn't quite night yet, maybe he'd put them on later—was doing an admirably sturdy job of supporting him on his journey from the main house of the Crawford estate to the guest house. As they navigated across the stripes that the setting sun had painted on the desert, Night Goggles seemed to understand that it was very _bad_ to step on the shadows, and that walking on the crunchy ruby red sand was _much_ better.

"What's the date in Japan?" he asked Night Goggles as they entered the guest house. He knew that he'd asked this more than once already, but he still couldn't believe the answer he kept getting.

"Ninth of October, sir," Night Goggles said, helping him up the stairs. "Sixteen hours ahead of us."

"That's _ridiculous_ ," he said, pointing in what he hoped was west. "They're only a few hours _that way!"_ He then sat on the bed to take off his shoes.

"Shall I make you some coffee, sir?" Night Goggles asked as he took a paisley smoking jacket from the closet. "Or would you rather rest for a while?"

"No, I don't want to sleep," Pegasus said, feeling dizzy as the champagne began to let him down. "I don't want to sleep through the rest of my _birthday_." His eyes were welling up with tears: why hadn't the silly boy called? What was _so_ important that he wasn't making time to sneak off and wish his best friend happy birthday? Then he felt even _more_ wretched, because he was an adult allowing his feelings to be hurt by a child. "Just go away," he told Night Goggles, clutching fiercely at a pillow as the room began to spin. "I want to be alone."

When he woke several hours later he rang for coffee and checked his messages. There were none—or at least none that mattered, none from Seto—and so he decided to buy himself an island.

 

.

Sixteen days later—he made _absolutely_ sure that it was the 25th in Japan—he made a phone call. He hadn't actually expected it to go through—the initial Kaiba Corporation receptionist had asked him in careful English to hold, and when she came back he expected to receive an ever-so-cordial brushoff—but to his surprise he received an apology for the inexcusable inconvenience of waiting, and was then asked if he would accept apologies for being asked to hold once again in order for the call to be transferred?

"Certainly," he said.

The next voice on the line was a baritone who introduced himself as Kogoro Daimon and asked the purpose of the call.

"I'm Maximillion J. Crawford, an old friend of Seto Kaiba," Pegasus said. "I was calling to wish him a happy birthday."

"One moment," Kogoro said, and then Seto was on the line. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I called to say Happy Fifteen!"

"Is there anything else?" Seto said, sounding distant. "I'm busy."

"Oh, surely not too busy for me?" Pegasus chided, but the line was already dead.

 

.

"The worst way to get news," Maximillion's father used to joke, "is from a lawyer." Pegasus was reminded of this saying several days later when, in a meeting with his corporate senior counsel, he was handed a contract folder with the comment, "Everyone's green-lighted this, so all we need is final signatures."

He'd uncapped his pen and had turned to the signature page when he saw several lines allotted to " 海馬コーポレイション KAIBA CORPORATION."

Puzzled, he flipped back to the first page. The contract was for the joint development and production of dueling arenas. "Licensing, proprietary rights, non-disclosure agreements ... " he murmured, skimming the sections. "Is this SolidVision?"

"SolidVision?" The lawyer shook his head, turned to the others for confirmation. "No, the technology is called—" He paged through the document, "It's called _Virtual Simulation System."_

"I see." So this was the older technology, the holographic projection system that Gozaburo had appropriated for military simulations. Not Seto's latest and greatest, but his tired old soon-to-be second-best? How very disappointing.

"Admittedly, I still have some reservations about the informality of it all, " his head attorney was saying. "I'd have preferred that we take the time to hammer out a joint venture agreement or form a consortium, something with more equitable transparency, but I do understand the need to capitalize on a volatile market."

"I'm sure it will be fine," Pegasus said. Amused that a lawyer would refer to a hundred-page document as an informal agreement, he mostly felt irritated. This was the first he'd heard of the project: why hadn't Seto called or emailed him to float the idea first? Perhaps there hadn't been time? Yes, that must be it. Seto had simply taken advantage of a momentary flexibility on Gozaburo's part to get Kaiba Corporation's foot inside Industrial Illusions' door, and if that was the case it was best he take care not to crush anything.

"Refresh my memory," he said. "Who gets the first production units?"

 

.

Saruwatari was a thug, but he had his virtues. To begin with, he had the sort of intimidating physique that made it easy to place him in the Kaiba household as a bodyguard to Seto and Mokuba. Second, when paid a sufficiently large salary he followed orders to the letter. Finally—and most importantly—he was so entirely lacking in imagination that whenever he reported something outrageous, Pegasus was inclined to take it as fact.

"Seto bought shares in a mortuary company," Saruwatari said. "Enough to take ownership."

"A mortuary company?" Pegasus asked, "For burials?" Kaiba Corporation was a military supplier—were they going to offer a body disposal service as well? Or perhaps it was some sort of war reparation. "Try to find out if they have any unusual patents."

"Patents?" Saruwatari laughed, "On what? Ovens?"

Pegasus winced. "Yes, good point."

Four days went by. "He sold it."

"Sold it? Why? He owned it less than a week!"

"It was a squeeze," Saruwatari said. "Said he'd fire everyone unless they bought the shares back from him."

"But I don't see—"

"Sat there cool as ice and said if they weren't willing to pay up it proved that money was more important to them than people."

"And this—this extortion _worked?"_

"Yeah," Saruwatari said, sounding awed. "Got back five times what it cost him."

Pegasus was rather awed himself: it was exquisitely amoral manipulation. He was sure that Seto was following Gozaburo's orders, but he hadn't suspected that the tyrant possessed such an impressive understanding of human psychology.

And then, according to Saruwatari, Seto did it again, and again. Pegasus was puzzled: hadn't Seto proved himself sufficiently heartless the first time? What was it going to take to please Gozaburo? a pile of still-beating baby hearts?

"No boss, you got it all wrong," Saruwatari said. "It's all been the _kid's_ idea. He got a pile of money for his birthday and had a year to turn it into a hundred piles. It's a test."

"And how is he progressing?" Pegasus was slightly horrified, but mostly he felt oddly proud of Seto's accomplishment.

"He's gonna make it, easy," Saruwatari said. "He'd be done by now, but two deals didn't close. One company burned down—for the insurance, I guess—and another guy told him to go to hell."

"How did he respond to that?"

"He fired everyone, sold the equipment to a competitor, leveled the place, and then sold the land." Saruwatari chuckled. "Kid's got a temper."

It was gratifying that Seto was no longer the timid, fearful child he had been when they'd first met—he felt sure he could take most of the credit for that—but if Seto was speeding past self-confidence to drive deep into arrogance and even ruthlessness, well, that was clearly all Gozaburo's fault.

 

.

"Talk to me." Initially, the letter from Mr. Howard challenging him to a duel had been handled with the standard form letter citing logistics and full schedules and avoiding favoritism, but, apparently unable to accept "No" for an answer, Howard had then gone public, bragging on-line (at first in an editorial on his own website, and then on the major Duel Monsters forums) that Pegasus was "afraid" to face him.

Not all publicity was good publicity.

"Saying yes to Mr. Howard will establish a precedent," Pegasus' newly-hired Director of Public Relations said. "And then you'll be deluged by challenges from everyone with a rare card who has a few wins to their name!"

"I disagree," the Director of Marketing said. "The way to avoid establishing a precedent is to make the response _big_. So big that it's clear that it won't happen more than once a year. Howard is the top player in America. It's reasonable to have an exhibition match at the national finals."

"Well," Pegasus said, "if I do that, won't the public expect me to duel someone every year? I hate being boxed in by expectations." He picked up and re-read Howard's original letter, which was an amusing mash-up of awkward flattery, unbridled egotism, and idiosyncratic punctuation, all simmering over a bedrock of belligerent envy. There were frequent references to Pegasus' piles of money, and the letter closed with the sentence _If you want to do more than dress up pretty and pose for magazines give me a call_. "But making it big ... I _like_ big."

The Director of Public Relations snickered, but stopped at a warning look from the Director of Marketing, who had been at Industrial Illusions long enough to know very precisely what made Pegasus laugh and what made him fire people.

"Let's call him," Pegasus said, waving the letter. "See how far he's willing to go."

Howard answered on the second ring, his voice slurred as if drunk. " 'lo?"

"Mister Howard," Pegasus asked. "Is this Mister Keith Howard?"

"Who wants to know?"

"This is Maximillion Crawford, Mr Howard. I am calling in regard to the very interesting letter you sent to me. Is this a good time for us to talk?"

"I was fucking _sleepin_ ," growled Howard. "What time is it?"

"It is time," Pegasus said, "for you to duel. How does a one million dollar cash prize sound?"

 

.

The children, hand-picked for their well scrubbed but obviously non-affluent innocence, appeared as though they'd be a joy to work with. Unlike him, they weren't nervous at all, seemingly oblivious that their dueling lessons were going to occur in a stadium seating 50,000. The cranes with television cameras, the banks of kleig lights, the sound checks with enormous speakers—none of this bothered them. They all just sat happily, reading the _Funny Rabbit_ comic books he'd handed out. He'd wanted to give them booster packs so that they could have fun trading cards before the broadcast started, but his PR and Marketing Directors, were, for once, in agreement: live, on-camera "Oh, _coool!"_ reactions would be marketing gold. Platinum, even.

He on the other hand, was a wreck. The two people most important to the success of his evening hadn't arrived yet, and so he paced, forcing himself not to bite his nails, glancing over every few minutes at the cave-like pit from which his VIP visitors would emerge.

Finally, Howard appeared, flanked by the "escorts" whose job it was to make sure he showed up presentable and on time. As they guided Keith to the commissary table the stadium speakers boomed, _"LIVE IN TEN MINUTES!"_

"Alright people," the show director said, slightly less boomy, "Stop milling, get to filling those rows, and get ready to be thrilling!"

 

.

"Nice hair, princess. So you like little boys, eh?"

Pegasus was furious. He was willing to admit that, before he'd actually met the man, he'd found "Bandit" Keith's antics amusing: however, now that they were face-to-face, he realized that Keith was a swaggering, boorish jock who made Saruwatari look sophisticated. A dozen scathing responses went through his head, but of course most of them would be wasted on this leering philistine—and anyhow, sitting in the front row of the VIP section, wearing what looked to be a blue school uniform, was his special Guest of Honor. After making arrangements with Tom to put Keith in his place, Pegasus hurried over and sat next to Seto.

"I was sorry to hear of your father's death," he said, getting the formalities out of the way. "I didn't like him much, but—"

"I don't need your empty words of comfort," Seto said crisply, watching Keith and Tom. "The weak are not worth mourning."

"That's harsh."

"He'd grown careless, and underestimated me," Seto said.

"Oh? How?" Pegasus asked, and then, as Keith staggered back from the table. "Hold that thought. And don't go anywhere."

Once the trash had been cleared away Pegasus delivered his Duel Monsters pitch to the television cameras and handed out decks and booster packs to the kids. As soon as the broadcast was over he posed for a dozen photos, and then hurried back to Seto, who had watched the proceedings with an expression of amused contempt.

"So, what happened? Was it truly a _coup d'état?"_

Seto shrugged. "He gave Mokuba and I shares of KaibaCorp stock as a reward for my passing his test."

"Yes, I—" Pegasus almost said _Yes I heard_ , but stopped himself before he blew Saruwatari's cover. "Yes, I imagine you did quite well. You're a very smart boy."

"I had tricked him into thinking that he had control of Mokuba's shares and could retain his majority, but then," Seto sounded as if giving the explanation bored him, "Mokuba voted with us, and Gozaburo was out."

"So," Pegasus said, nodding, "Little Mokuba was the key. That's very clever. And you've inherited Gozaburo's shares along with his company? So you and your brother own the majority?"

"Fifty-one percent," Seto said.

"How lucky you are to get a fully-staffed company," Pegasus said. "I had to build my board of directors from the ground up."

Seto shrugged. "Gozaburo's toadies padded their budgets with useless projects year after year. They lack vision; they want to keep doing the same thing they've been doing for twenty years." Seto made a sweeping gesture and said with surprising fervor, "But it is _my_ company now! They must adapt or die. Kaiba Corporation will no longer be making weapons."

 _Hm,_ Pegasus thought. _Sounds like he's having a rocky start._ "Yes, I saw your proposal," he said. "We're ready to sign, though I must say I was disappointed to learn that we'll be licensing your older technology instead of SolidVision."

Seto looked at him coolly.

"You know," Pegasus said lightly, "if we weren't such good friends the terms of that contract would worry me. After all, once someone has access to our card database they could easily develop a competing product."

"Hn," Seto said, folding his arms. "Such an underhanded action wouldn't occur to me."

"Of course not," Pegasus said soothingly, but he wondered. The Seto of even a year ago wouldn't have double-crossed him, but this new Seto had already extorted half a dozen small business owners, driven one man to arson, and at least one—and possibly two—to suicide. Most likely he planned to keep SolidVision all for himself.

"The older technology is proven, and very stable," Seto said. "Several top entertainment complexes have already contacted us expressing interest. As you will be receiving the first ten arenas produced, you'll be able to sell your units to the highest bidder."

"Oh?" Pegasus pretended to study his fingernails. "If they're that good, I'm surprised you aren't reserving some for KaibaLand."

"Pegasus," Seto said, taking a silver briefcase from next to his chair and standing. "If you don't want the arenas, we can re-draft the contract."

"Now now, don't be that way," Pegasus said as the stadium lights came up. "Of _course_ I'll take them. Who should we send problem reports to?"

"There will be no problems as long as they're built to my designs and installed correctly." Seto had turned and was walking swiftly toward the exit.

"Let's not quarrel," Pegasus said as he hurried to catch up to Seto before the crowds began clogging the corridors that led out of the stadium. "I look forward to having the very first one as the centerpiece of my new island home." He dodged in front of Seto and bowed. "I would consider it an honor if you would oversee the installation personally, Seto- _sama._ "

Seto stopped, looking at him with frank irritation, and then laughed. "There is truly no one like you in all the world," he said.

 

.

It had taken almost a month.

When Seto and his crew had 'coptered in and seen the castle—"You didn't buy a castle," Seto had scoffed, "you bought the _shell_ of a castle"—their study of the floor plans had resulted in the pronouncement that none of the floors or load-bearing walls—existing or planned—would be able to bear the weight of the arena. After discussing several ideas Seto announced that they would reinforce the roof with a special frame that would enable the arena to be lowered from the ceiling of the castle's central structure.

"You _do_ know that the castle is roofed with three-hundred year old terracotta tiles?" Pegasus had asked, bored beyond belief by the engineering talk but afraid to leave lest they decide to unleash some fresh horror on his celestial palace.

"Then I suggest," Seto had said, brushing past Pegasus to take a T-square from the chief engineer, "that you remove them before we return with the drills."

"You'll enjoy this, won't you?" Pegasus said. "Destroying my home."

"It is remote and impractical," Seto said as he began to annotate a schematic.

"Well—so are you!" was the best rejoinder Pegasus had come up with.

However, once the arena was installed he was, once again, impressed by Seto's ingenuity, and a flair for the excessive that almost matched his own. He'd been opposed at first to the motorized walkways and laser-positioning units—they seemed dangerous, and cost three times what his "free" arena was worth—but he had to admit when he saw them in action that installing them had been the right choice. "Fantastic! Amazing!" he said again and again during the demonstration, knowing as soon as he saw the holographic battle system that the arenas would be in great demand. Two people playing cards wasn't all that exciting to watch; televising giant monsters grappling and slashing, however ...

"Please let me show my gratitude," he said, clapping enthusiastically as the arena was being retracted and the various engineers and electricians began gathering up their tools. "Allow me to entertain you for the remainder of the week as my guests!"

"No," Seto said coldly, "we have work to do. Work that has already been delayed twice because of the time taken on this installation."

Pegasus felt quite deflated. He followed Seto and his crew out of the castle as they began to descend the steps toward the Kaiba Corporation helicopters. "Seto," he asked, putting a hand on his shoulder, "won't you at least stay for dinner?"

Seto turned and glared. "From now on," he said, knocking Pegasus' hand away, "call me _Kaiba_. I am president of a company! It is not proper for you to call me by my given name."

Pegasus was shocked. "Even when we're in private? I thought the intimate form was acceptable between friends."

 _"Intimate?_ There is no intimate between us," Seto hissed. "Now or ever."

Hurt, Pegasus found himself wanting to strike back. "You know, it's a shame no one will ever be close enough to you to see the lovely shade of blue your eyes become when you're angry."

"What?" Seto took a step back.

"But then again who would want to? I have to say I don't like what you've become, Se— _Kaiba_ ," Pegasus said. "You've always been stubborn and secretive, but your arrogance is intolerable. Weren't you taught to show respect for your elders?" Well, of course the boy had no respect for his elders: he had, after all, driven his adopted father to suicide.

"I give respect to those who deserve it," Seto said, running down the remaining steps to the nearest helicopter.

"And I don't?" Pegasus asked, hurrying after. "Not even as the inventor of Duel Monsters? Do you honestly think there's anyone else in the world who could have done it?"

Seto began re-packing the testing equipment the technicians had loaded behind the helicopter's seats. "You may be the creator of Duel Monsters," he said without turning around, "but I am their master. No duelist will ever surpass me."

The boy really needed to learn the meaning of humility. "Well, of course! Thanks to me you have the world's most powerful cards." Not entirely true, of course, but Seto need not know that.

Seto climbed into the helicopter's front seat and started the rotors.

Pegasus held down his hair and ducked. Why had Seto become so difficult, so ungrateful, so hurtful? What had changed? He _had_ to find out.

He pushed into Seto's mind, his anger building. The silver-haired urchin girl blocked his path immediately, but he cast her aside—of course Seto was carrying his deck, he and his cards were inseparable—and pushed deeper into Seto's mind then he ever had before, past the chamber with the writhing lovers, through a shadowed doorway behind them, into a plaza blazing with light. Most of what he saw next went by too fast for him to process, but one image did stay with him: a hideous man with rotting flesh, long white hair, claw-like hands, and an eye of gold _._

Pegasus withdrew. So, that hideous _monster_ was how Seto saw him? How dare he! If anyone deserved to be cast in the role of monster it was Gozaburo!

Seto sat unmoving, his hands on the helicopter controls, his blue eyes unblinking.

"Kaiba has decided to stay to dinner after all," Pegasus shouted to the workers that remained. "He says to go ahead without him."

 

.

It had been so very simple. Within an hour two rare card collectors were on their way, with the third assuring him that he was making arrangements to be there as soon as possible. Pegasus then called Saruwatari. "Take Kaiba-boy home," he said. Once the collectors had arrived he would release the boy's soul, of course, but by then Seto would be well on his way to Japan. By the time he realized that his precious Blue Eyes were gone the cards would be scattered to the winds, forever out of his reach. Pegasus was looking forward to the enraged call that would follow. "I don't have them, Kaiba-boy," he would be able to say, quite truthfully. "You're welcome to come back and search for them."

"What's wrong with him?" Saruwatari asked. "Is he high?" He poked Seto in the arm.

"Who knows?" Pegasus said. "Maybe he had too much champagne, or ate something that didn't agree with him."

 

.

_They are in the woods so that he can paint his shy goddess_ al fresco _, sunlight and shade dappling the crown of his heaven. At his urging she unlaces her bodice bit by bit, but once it is open covers herself with her hands. He adores her blushing modesty, but still he sets down his brush and palette and goes to her, gently pulling her hands away, one at a time, kissing her palms, her wrists, and then her perfect breasts. Once she is revealed he tells her that Aphrodite herself could not have been so beautiful. Her aureoles are as soft as pale rose petals, even when they retreat from his tongue into tiny buds. She strokes his hair and then falls back with a sigh as his hand, questing, slips under the hem of her dress and her petticoats, hesitantly following the lace tops of her stockings, patiently waiting the eternity until her thighs part just enough to grant permission for him to trace the crease in her silk undergarments. As the fabric grows damp under his fingertips his own desire builds, and he knows that this time his ardor will not be easily controlled. She touches his shoulder and then shifts on the blanket, making room so that he can stretch out beside her, holding her face as he kisses her ardently, closing his eyes as she moves her arm to pull impatiently at his belt, her long nimble fingers undoing his buttons and boldly—_

He opens his eyes in shock. The face between his hands had been Seto's.

 

.

The artful indirect lighting softens and blurs the features of the men at the table. Except for their eyes: their eyes are sharp and attentive as wolves. They look, he thinks, just like the "uncles" and "business acquaintances" that used to visit his father. The ones that pretended to be surprised when told he wasn't a girl. The ones that used to ask his father, when told he was an artist, who would take over the family business.

"What can we do for you?" the bearded one—Daimon Kogoro—asks.

"I? I ask for nothing," he tells them, bowing as he places his business card on the table. "I am just a simple shareholder of Kaiba Corporation." Behind the men, through the wall of windows, he sees the lights of a descending airplane in the night sky. "Sadly, I was only able to purchase a _single_ share. It was surprisingly difficult to find one to buy—and so expensive!"

The short man that looks like a penguin picks up the card, then passes it to Daimon.

"Good to see you again, Oshita-sama," Pegasus says to the large, heavyset man at the far end of the table. "My father sends his regards."

"Oh yes," Oshita says. "You're Crawford's son." He murmurs to the others, then says, "I see you acquired your venture capital after all. I hear your company is very successful: my congratulations."

"You flatter me," Pegasus says, bowing again. "But it is I who should give congratulations to you. I understand that the construction of KaibaLand is proceeding according to schedule. American gamers in particular are going to be _very_ excited about SolidVision."

Oshita glances at the others. "Solid vision? What is that?"

"Oh, I completely understand," he says. "and I assure you, I have no wish to pry into your secrets. I merely came to offer my services—and my condolences. I know how difficult it must be for you to have lost an old friend only to find yourself at the beck and call of a teenager." He smiles at them, then adds with a laugh, "And not a very pleasant one at that, is he? Or so I've heard."

"We are very busy, Mr. Crawford," the thin-faced man with glasses says, the lenses flashing briefly as he looks down at the papers on the table. "We have a full agenda, with many items to address."

Pegasus does not tell them—not yet, at least—that he knows that they are not nearly as busy as they used to be.

Nor does he tell them that he understands that, like wild dogs and hyenas, they are always hungry, that they prefer an easy kill, and that they never, ever, forget a boot that has kicked them.

 

.

.

_~ The end ~_

.

.

**Author's notes** (will be expanded soon)

I hadn't actually realized when I originally watched the series that Saruwatari (aka Kemo) had been spying for Pegasus in the guise of being a bodyguard for the Kaiba brothers for quite some time, but in retrospect it makes sense. How else to get a kidnapped Mokuba from Japan to California without much trouble? Trivia: he's possibly named for Tetsuya Saruwatari, a mangaka that created violent action comics and manga with graphic martial arts fighting.

In the manga, Crocketts says at the beginning of Duel 29 (Duelist vol 4) that Seto had previously come to Duelist Kingdom island to celebrate the installation of the "battle boxes" (the Virtual Simulation System used prior to SolidVision, the "Hyper 3D engine.")

According to the manga, Seto had to retrieve the 4 BEWD cards from an American, a German, a Hong Konger, and Sugoroku Mutou. Kaiba took the cards belonging to the former three by either forcing the person into bankruptcy, by making deals with the mafia, or by driving the person to commit suicide. (Duelist vol 3, ch 27)

The big duel arenas are only seen in the anime, at Kaiba Corporation, KaibaLand, and Duelist Kingdom. In the manga Kaiba's "first generation" holotechnology is used in "Battle Boxes" a table and two seats inside a Lucite cube that projects small holograms.

.

(05) 2 December 2013


End file.
